


Six Inch Heels

by gellavonhamster



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Crossdressing, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gellavonhamster/pseuds/gellavonhamster
Summary: Inappropriate use of the secretary disguise.





	Six Inch Heels

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Группа Пропащих Волонтёров](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039004) by [gellavonhamster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gellavonhamster/pseuds/gellavonhamster). 



> this fic has, like, no deep thoughts or ideas in it at all, sorry for that

When he enters the room, the ball is already in full swing: the band is playing jazz, the dancing couples are sweeping past him, and some of the guests have already lost or taken off their masks and are dancing without them. Some ladies, as Bertrand manages to notice, have also kicked off their shoes. Perfect: so it won’t matter if he takes off his shoes too at some point. The fact that almost all women’s outfits included in the traditional disguise kit come complete with stiletto shoes is blatant injustice: naturally, the rasps and lock picks hidden in the heels could come in handy, but it is difficult to walk in such shoes for want of habit, not to mention dance in them. 

Some guests, especially those that are older, look askance at him. No wonder: it is the unwritten rule that attending a masked ball in a standard VFD disguise, not bothering to come up with a new and original one, is considered bad form. Many of these people must have had to squeeze into the very same tube skirt, button up the very same tight blouse, and masquerade as a secretary at one institution or another to spy on the customers or sneakily make copies of the secret documents signed by the employer. Some of them, on the other hand, look at him without disapproval – if anything, they seem interested. Recognition could be read on the faces of two or three of them, which is suspicious, because Bertrand doesn’t recognize them himself. He notices Ramona’s mother, the Duchess of Winnipeg, who glances over him absentmindedly without interrupting her conversation with some elderly bearded man and does not recognize him, and Captain Widdershins, who does not recognize him either and ogles his legs unabashedly. Beatrice is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Lemony. 

“I beg your pardon, _signorina_ ,” somebody says playfully right by his ear, and somebody’s hand wraps around his waist quickly. “Am I wrong to assume you’re bored?”

“Just taking a look around, really. Hello, Monty,” Bertrand gives his friend the once-over, from the bottom of his toga to the flowers in his hair and the horns on his head. “Is that papier-mâché?”

“What, the horns? Ah, yes. Didn’t have enough time to grow my own, you know. Have you been here long?”

“I’ve just arrived. Unforeseen circumstances,” Bertrand decides not to go into details. It is not him who these circumstances concern first and foremost, but Kit, and it is not up to him to decide who to inform and who not to inform about them. “See, there wasn’t even enough time for me to prepare the right costume.”

“Now, you surely shouldn’t worry about that. You look…” Monty pulls away demonstratively to take a better look at his outfit. “Jaw-dropping.”

“Still, you recognized me at once,” Bertrand reminds him. In truth, he doesn’t really care what other guests would think about his costume, but arguing with Monty, especially jokingly, is always fun. “And the point of the masked ball is not to know who’s hiding behind the mask.”

“My friend, dare I remind you that we used to share an apartment for… how many years? Five, six? In any case, you can’t fool me. Oh, and here comes Beatrice.”

The first thing Bertrand notices is the bat – a stuffed one, crowning the coiffure. Then Beatrice emerges from the crowd next to them, lifting up her long skirt a little. Then she, all black velvet and silver glitter and gleams of light in her hair, shifts her gaze from Monty to him, her eyes fly open in amazement, and her lips even part a little.

It is hard to throw Beatrice Baudelaire for a loop, and it’s even harder to fluster her, but she is blushing now – a rare sight, a rare and astonishing one indeed.

And a very, very attractive one, but that goes without saying.

“Look whom I’ve found, _principessa_ ,” Monty says, satisfied. “You were looking for your gentleman all over the mansion while you should have been looking for a fair lady.” 

Beatrice nods, still looking at Bertrand, spellbound.

“Monty,” she finally says. “You’re a treasure. Bertrand, what is this?”

“The secretary disguise from the disguise kit, obviously. You must have the same.”

“I know it’s the secretary disguise,” she comes closer and looks up at him. The stilettos add some five inches to her height – it’s only that Bertrand is also wearing heels tonight. “What I’m asking is,” she continues, sounding exuberant and tormented at the same time, “what is this pornography? How did they let you in here? Did they think you’re here to jump out of a cake? Monty, has R mentioned by any chance if anyone will be jumping out of a cake tonight?” 

“Guess I’ll go and ask,” Monty winks at her and disappears among the dancers.

Beatrice grabs Bertrand by the hand and draws him aside.

“Let me have another look at you,” she says with zest.

“Just don’t push me, I’m in heels.”

“Oh trust me, I can see that you’re in heels. Is that my lipstick? Did you take my lipstick?”

“Well, sorry for that,” Bertrand knows she isn’t really mad at all so he doesn’t even try to put on a serious face. “Didn’t have any time to buy my own.”

Beatrice narrows her eyes.

“Any other things of mine that you’ve borrowed, you pervert?”

“Nothing.”

“But you have to admit you’re wearing ladies’ underthings.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you trying to tell me you managed to pull this skirt over men’s underpants?”

“I didn’t.”

Beatrice’s eyebrows shoot up, and despite the music being loud, Bertrand can swear he just heard her gasp.

“Just don’t yell about it for the whole mansion to hear,” he says quickly. 

Beatrice takes a step back.

“I need Lemony,” she says resolutely. “I’m not going to bear this burden alone. Let him suffer too. Lemony! Hey, Lemony!”

Snicket appears as if by magic – you’d think he’s enchanted, destined to follow Beatrice eternally whenever and wherever she’d call for him. He casts a glance at Bertrand from under his wide-brimmed cavalier hat – and freezes, understanding who’s in front of him. In contrast to Beatrice Baudelaire, under certain circumstances Lemony Snicket blushes easily and quite often; Bertrand has already had the pleasure to witness it more than once, and every time he thinks he’d never be tired of watching it happen. 

“Mister Snicket,” Beatrice drawls out, her voice sugary sweet, “Let me introduce you to our associate Miss Markson.”

Lemony stares at him silently, and then suddenly holds out his hand. 

“Pleased to meet you,” he says chokingly, and brings Bertrand’s hand to his lips.

Perhaps blushing is contagious, because now Bertrand feels that his own cheeks are burning.

Beatrice waits until Lemony is done kissing Bertrand’s hand – the kiss lasts a little longer than prescribed by etiquette – and wraps her arm around Lemony’s shoulder, pulls him close, and whispers something into his ear. Bertrand can’t hear it but he can imagine what she’s saying, and the amalgam of embarrassment and desire he sees is Snicket’s eyes looks good on him.

“Bertrand,” Lemony says, in the same choked voice, “Is my sister here?”

“Yes.”

“I take it that your trip went well?”

“For the most part.”

“I have to find her later. Right. Later,” Lemony fumbles with the top button of his shirt as if he wants to undo it but doesn’t dare to, or as if he simply doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Something pops loudly nearby, and the three of them give a start at once and turn around, but it’s just the waiter opening a bottle of champagne. 

“I think we should show Miss Markson the winter garden of the Duchess of Winnipeg,” Beatrice proposes with a dazzling smile. “It is splendid, and likely to be less crowded than it is in here. It is even possible there’s nobody there at all.”

“A great idea,” Lemony agrees. “If Miss Markson is up for it, of course.”

Whether “Miss Markson” is up for it, Bertrand muses, is obviously the wrong question. The right question would have been the following: “Would the Duchess of Winnipeg mind if her daughter’s friends used her winter garden for their own purposes, which are not wicked but not innocent either?” Still, the opportunity to ask her does not present itself, and even if they had such an opportunity, none of them, understandably, would use it. 

“I’d love to take a look at the winter garden,” he says.

Lemony Snicket leaves the ballroom arm in arm with two ladies.


End file.
